


A Change in the Winds

by cyprith



Series: Modern Magic AU [13]
Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyprith/pseuds/cyprith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't have to be a raven to feel these winds change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change in the Winds

**Author's Note:**

> Anon prompted: family and child

Twenty minutes passes without word. Not a peep, not a creak, not a twitch from Maleficent’s office. Straining for any noise behind him, Diaval shuffles through his paperwork. He gets very little done.

Perched on the lip of his desk, Munin peers at him balefully.

“I know,” he snaps.

Thoroughly unimpressed, the raven turns, tucks his head beneath his wing.

Sighing, Diaval stands.

—

Gentle as thieves, he creeps into Maleficent’s office. She hears the door—she must—but she barely glances up. Sitting at her desk, suit sharp enough to cut, she could be on the cover of a magazine. Possibly along with an article about how to know when your boss wants to kill you.

Of course, he’ll hardly stand a chance if she does.

But she doesn’t look upset. To be honest, she doesn’t look much of anything. Gingerly, Diaval steps a little further into the room. This, at last, draws her attention.

“Yes?”

Pressed and perfect, she could be made of paper for all the emotion on her face. But after four years with her, Diaval could probably take her at poker if he had to.

She holds a pen in her right hand, knuckles a shade too pale. The other hand remains absolutely still, forced flat against the surface of her desk. Though she holds her shoulders straight as knives, her wings betray her tension, feather fluffed and jittery.

Scared. Still scared.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Fine. And you?” Maleficent arches an eyebrow at him. She signs her name to a paper, drops it in her outbox. Though she tries for casual, she holds her mouth pale and drawn, her fingers icicle tight. “Do you have the R&D projections?”

And god, but Diaval wants to touch her so badly his skin crawls. Wants to put her feathers back into place, sweet and gentle, wants to sort out the tension in her neck, take the sword from her spine.

Mouth dry, he shoves his hands into his pockets to resist the temptation.

“Done and sent,” he tells her. He swallows, searching for the right words. At last, he gives up. May as well just jump. “Do you want me to schedule Ms. Adaline for—”

“I don’t want to see her,” Maleficent snaps.

She’s been waiting for him, then. He probably gave her too long. Leave her with any time to consider a matter and she’d come up with a list of reasons three foot long why whatever it was meant death and terror for all who beheld it.

Diaval sighs. He doesn’t want to have this fight. Not on top of the—the _whatever it is_ that’s already going on between them, so tense and sore he can’t even _smile_ at Maleficent without her wings snapping like a storm.

Only, there’s a child. And her mum can’t help her if she doesn’t know _how_.

“Someone should tell her,” he says. “Otherwise that little girl’s gonna grow up not knowing what she is, and let me tell you, Lef, I’ve been there. It’s no picnic.”

But Maleficent only shrugs. She flashes him a look, cool and patronizing, and says, “What consequence is it to me? She’s not mine.”

At her tone, her eyes, Diaval goes rigid. He’s seen that look before. Oh god, has he seen it. He could write a fucking _book_ on its variations—school teachers and police officers and fucking passersby on the _street._

And Maleficent’s never—she’s _never_ looked at him like that. Like she can’t be fucking _bothered._ Like he’s not worth the time it takes to send him from her sight. And he knows she doesn’t mean it, not like that. It’s the distance thing she’s doing, pretending like if she ignores him hard enough they’ll fall out of this shriveled little sideways love affair they have. Like she can get him out of her head, like she can claw him out from under her skin.

No, he knows she doesn’t mean it. But it hurts like a bitch just the same.

Quick as a shiv, he says, “You gave her that blessing to protect her from LeRoi. I thought—”

Maleficent’s hand flattens on the desk. “ _Get out.”_

And Diaval had expected a row—hell, maybe they _need_ a row, need to just go ahead and lance this sodding blister—but she’d _never_ used that tone on him before.

Gently, he eases forward, tries, “Maleficent—”

But a green mist glows beneath her hand and she _glares_ at him, teeth bared, rage scored like scars beside her eyes.

“Go,” she says.

So Diaval does.

—

He comes back, though. He may be a chronic fuck-up—an ex-druggie, an ex-con—but a coward he is not. So Diaval creeps back in at the end of the day, his coat folded over his arm and his jaw set like war.

“You ready to talk about this?” he asks. Despite himself, the words come out gentle.

Maleficent looks up from her computer, her earlier fury banked to persistent irritation. “I am not.”

And it’s a warning—in her tone, in her eyes—but Diaval doesn’t care. He hears it, sure. But he rarely asks for anything and he’s not backing down from this.

“Will you at least _write_ her, then?”

“And tell her _what_ precisely?” she snaps. “Your daughter looks strange because her father is half beast? It’s a wonder she didn’t inherit his hooves—my, aren’t genetics funny things?”

Diaval doesn’t say anything. What is there to say? He just stands, watching her.

And he hurts. His chest feels too small, his skin too tight. He wants to touch her. He wants to _shout._ He wants to track fucking LeRoi down and bash his bloody brains out.

Instead, he waits, and wills her to look at him.

At last, Maleficent sighs. She leans back in her chair, squeezes shut her eyes. Two fingers lift to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Damnable bird,” she mutters and Diaval knows he’s won. “Very well. I hardly care. Schedule her anywhere.”

—

Leila Adaline looks a lot different than she did as Leila LeRoi. She’s softer now around the edges, brighter, comes wearing pastels and doesn’t seem at all frightened. A wee slip of a child walks close beside her, all golden curls and elfin features, trying to look around at everything at once.

When she catches him looking, Leila offers up a rueful smile.

“Sorry,” she says. “I had to bring Aurora; I couldn’t find a baby sitter. Usually my sisters take her, but they’re scattered at the best of times and today they’re so busy, she’d be lost underfoot.”

Diaval shrugs, smiles back. Last time she’d come, this woman had looked a drab mouse beside her asshole spouse. Today, she’s a canary bird, calm and cheerful and whole in her bright colors. She wears the face of woman who dodged a bullet and escaped with everything she loved in the world

Looking at her, Diaval can’t help but feel a glimmer of hope. She’ll be good for Maleficent, he thinks.

In any case, she’ll understand her.

“It’s no trouble,” he says. “You can head on in; Maleficent’s ready. And I’ll mind Aurora, if you like. There’s quite a bit breakable in the office.”

Leila looks at him—with his winged tattoos, his half-head of hair and runes—and where other clients have flinched or sneered, she smiles. Of all people, she smiles.

“Would you? Considering the… topic of discussion, I’d much prefer her out of earshot.”

Diaval likes her. Whatever her taste in men, she’s good people.

“Not a problem,” he tells her. And then, coming around the desk to better see the little faun peeking through her mother’s legs, “Do you like to color, sweetheart? I’ve markers around here somewhere.”

—

Delightful child that she is, Aurora, as it turns out, likes everything _—_

But she _especially_ likes when he turns into a raven.

Forgoing any attempt at work, Diaval flits and flops through the room, a sunshiny girl in hot pursuit. And she _is_ fast—a challenge, even, in these close quarters—but she’s blessedly gentle. The few times she does manage to catch him, she cradles him like a baby, gives him a scratch along the fine dark feathers of his head. She never holds very tightly. Diaval gets free easily enough each time, nips at her hair and flies away again.

It’s been a _long_ time since he’s entertained a child. Croaking laughter and hanging from the light fixtures, Diaval finds he’s missed it. And caught up in their game, he doesn’t notice when the office door opens. Not until he hears Maleficent clear her throat.

Abruptly, Diaval pops back into his skin. Aurora tackles his knees and clings.

“Caught you, pretty bird!” she giggles.

Standing in the doorway, Leila grins. But Diaval isn’t looking at her. His eyes are on Maleficent, her wings settled and her shoulders loose. Calm, he thinks. Somewhat chagrined—as she ever is with his _antics_ , as she calls them—but calm. Easy in her skin.

Somewhere deep in his belly, a little spark of hope dares to raise its head.

Diaval offers them a winning smile, attempts to put some order back into his hair.

“Hello, there,” he says. “Done so soon?”

Leila laughs. With a long suffering sigh, Maleficent rolls her eyes.

Don’t need to be a raven to feel the change in this wind.

They’ll be alright, Diaval realizes. He grins.

Everything will be fine.


End file.
